


The Price of Gold

by karategal



Series: A Hobbit in the Lonely Mountain [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Arkenstone - Freeform, Confessions, Dwarf Culture, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Gold Sickness, Hobbit Culture, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, M/M, Misunderstandings, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karategal/pseuds/karategal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After living in the Lonely Mountain for ten years, Frodo stumbles across a tapestry in Dale that depicts the darkest days of the Quest for Erebor. Gold madness. Attempted murder. Banishment. Starvation. None of these words had ever appeared in the Company's or storytellers' accounts of the Lonely Mountain's reclamation. Could his dwarf uncle really be a treasure-hungry, murderous monster? Frodo's determined to find out the truth...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of the characters or actors from _The Hobbit_. Everything belongs to the great and powerful J.R.R. Tolkien.

The markets of Dale were bustling in the early springtime air and Frodo took complete advantage of his escorts' distraction to wander off into the churning crowds. At eighteen-years-old, he was finally allowed to visit the northman city without either of his uncles or aunt, which was a first for the dark-haired hobbit and Frodo was going to enjoy the temporary freedom while he could. So long as he didn't wander out of the assigned guards' sight, the faunt was allowed to explore the numerous stalls to his heart's content. Frodo could already feel the familiar eyes of Aina and Fari on his back, their loyalty to Dwalin and the royal family absolute in every way; there would be no shaking them off, though not for lack of trying on Frodo and his friends' parts.

"I need to purchase something for Amad's birthday," said Donel, his eyes surveying each shop they passed on the street. "She's always talking about those woven bracelets and fancy tapestries near the Lady's Fountain. At the little shop with the green windows?"

"My uncle knows the owner and weaver who supplies them," said Dwina. "He smells kinda funny. Like Master Dori's chamomile tea."

"Then why don't we stop in there for a look around?" proposed Frodo, his hands tightening around Donel's and Dwina's as they pushed through the crowds. "Maybe they have something with foreign languages, too. Your amad liked those books Ori gave her last year, right?"

"She didn't put them down for a week. Adad was jealous of them."

Dwina clapped a hand against her skirts and said, "I heard your uncle mention something about Lotani merchants being in Dale last week. Master Sven's always doing some kind of business with traders from the east. Maybe he purchased some of their wares?"

"And your amad speaks Ulgathig, right?"

"I remember seeing Lotani and Dyrian stalls in the markets last spring," said Dwina. "They had beautiful tapestries with all kinds of pretty weavings and scripts on them. Even my uncle was impressed by the craftsmanship."

"Uncle Bilbo says that a lot of the northeastern tribes are headed by women," Frodo added. "That seems like something your amad would appreciate or at least like, if any of the tapestries were made by the matriarch ladies."

"I love their stories about the shieldmaidens." Dwina smiled toothily at the thought. "Only the Rohirrim traders and bards have better tales, but they never venture this far north. I haven't seen any of them since Uncle brought us to Erebor."

Donel pouted at the small purse in his front pocket. "I hope I have enough to get her something nice. Everything costs so much..."

"We've got some coins on us."

Frodo nodded. "Uncle Glóin always shoves a bunch into my pockets when I come to Dale. Here, have some of them."

Poor Donel's eyes nearly bugged out at the sight of so much gold and silver in one spot. Frodo often forgot just how poor his friends had been growing up, especially Donel, whose family had been nomadic tinkers that never stayed in a single town for very long. Drogo and Primula Baggins had been hobbits of modest means as well, but Frodo had little memory of that life now. Whenever he thought of food or home, Uncle Bilbo and Uncle Thorin were the first things that came to his mind.

They had been his parents and providers since his seventh birthday. Perhaps even earlier.

Of course, Frodo still had vague recollections of his mother and father, like Primula dancing beneath the Party Tree and Drogo tucking him into bed at night, but it was the faunt's uncles and aunt and cousins who dominated the majority of his memories. Images of Primula and Dís had gradually started to blend together at times, which had distressed Frodo when he'd first realized what was happening. Thankfully, Uncle Bilbo and Ori had collaborated with one another to create several portraits of the faunt's mother and father. The beautifully detailed pictures now sat right beside Frodo's pillow on his bureau and nightstand, a loving tribute to the parents who had left their son's life far too soon.

"Buy something real nice for her," Frodo insisted. "She deserves it."

The three children arrived at their destination a few minutes later, Aina and Fari only a couple yards behind them. Thankfully, the weaver's wasn't too crowded and they were able to enter without too many problems. Maneuvering through Dale was often difficult due to their small sizes, but most northmen were sympathetic to their dwarf neighbors and designed their shops accordingly. Of course, much of the masonry and stone-based reconstruction of Dale had been done by the Longbeard dwarves themselves, so quite a few dwarven touches could be found throughout the city.

Strategically placed stepstools and staircases were Frodo's favorite aspects of the white-towered metropolis. If he wanted to see overtop of the crowds or just rest above the bustling men, then there was always a tiered fountain or stair-based garden nearby. The men and women of Dale often left these raised elevations to their shorter neighbors, purposely avoiding those spots so that the dwarves—and everyone's favorite pair of hobbits—could easily find them.

"Look for anything exotic," said Donel once they were inside. "Amad's fond of weird scripts and eastern jewelry."

Frodo nodded and meandered down a side aisle, his feet automatically stepping up onto the raised walkway that lined all of the shop's tables, which made everything appear at shoulder level for him. The fauntling couldn't wait until he was older and taller; then he'd be able to look at the tables and shelves without straining his neck. But for now, he'd just have to make do with a neck ache for Thana's birthday.

"This is pretty," Frodo whispered to himself. "Doesn't look like anything the guilds are making..."

He reached up and ran his fingers over the pale tapestry, carefully noting the squiggly scripts that circled the edges and then joined together in the center. It seemed to be a depiction of the moon and a grassy lake at nighttime. Two swans were sewn onto either side, their forms separated by the watery moonlight. Frodo wondered what the story behind it was; he always enjoyed a good tale from the east.

"Maybe something brighter..."

The faunt continued down the aisle, carefully sifting through the tapestries and looking for anything that might catch Thana's intellectual eye. His best friend's mother was a brilliant lady and even more amazing interpreter, often overseeing all councils that involved foreign-speaking delegates, merchants, or emissaries. Erebor's market and guild halls would've been destitute without the Consort's diplomacy and Thana's swift ability to learn almost any language she was presented with. They had managed to broker a couple dozen trade agreements in less than a decade, which was no small feat. Bilbo had even managed to finagle a few shipments of Old Toby out of the Brandybucks and Tooks during their trip to the Shire five months ago.

"Huh, what's this?"

Eyebrows furrowed in bemusement, Frodo hoisted himself a little higher onto the table and pulled out an elaborate tapestry that had been hidden underneath the rest of the pile. It was long and incredibly colorful with Westron and Sindarin script flowing along the edges, small pictures telling a detailed story about the Quest for Erebor. Frodo was instantly able to recognize his uncles, cousins, and the Company, all of them depicted as accurately as needlework and weaving permitted; even Bofur's floppy hat and Óin's trusty ear horn were included in the panels.

"Ha! Fíli's butt looks big and frumpy."

Frodo smiled as he slowly unfurled the tapestry, snorting when he came to the panels that depicted the demise of Bag End's pantry and his cousins losing the ponies to three moronic trolls. Honestly, how they'd survived the whole quest was beyond Frodo's imagination. Even at eighteen-years-old, he wasn't stupid enough to stumble into half of the trouble they'd managed to find on their way to the Lonely Mountain. Only the common sense of a gentlehobbit had kept them all alive and in one piece, as his Aunt Dís often pointed out.

"And there's the Bombur barrel."

He was about three-fourths through the tapestry when he noticed something peculiar. Tilting his head to the side, Frodo stared at the new panel and felt a queasy knot form at the bottom of his stomach. There, depicted all of his majestic glory, was Frodo's dwarven uncle, his face twisted with rage as he dangled Bilbo off of the battlements. The scene was unlike anything Frodo had ever seen before; a crude caricature of the stern King and gentle uncle who'd carried the faunt to bed, prepared his bubble baths, and kissed his boo boos to make the pain go away. The King resembled an angry warg more than a dwarven warrior, hands wrapped tightly around Bilbo's pale throat, pale blue eyes bright with fury and madness.

The faunt felt sick to his stomach and dropped the tapestry as if it had burned him. Frodo's lips quivered and he wondered when the temperature had dropped so low; it was the beginning of summer and everyone had been complaining about the sudden heat in recent days. But this didn't stop Frodo's fingers from feeling numb or his cheeks from turning an even paler white, the faunt's natural skin tone draining until he strongly resembled a blue-eyed corpse. It was the soft hands and murmuring of an elderly man that finally pulled Frodo from his frozen stupor.

"Are you alright, laddie?"

Frodo turned watery eyes up to stare at the man, his hands still shaking from the cruel picture he'd just gazed upon. With a shaky finger, Frodo pointed at the panel and then asked, "What does this mean?"

"Ah, so you've found my latest work," said the man with a nod. "Took me several years to finally complete it. I made two of them: one for the King of Dale and one to stay in my shop. Haven't had the time to properly display it yet."

"But what about this?" asked Frodo as he pointed to the panel again. "When did this happen?"

"That, little dwarf, was a most unpleasant incident that took place shortly before the Battle of the Five Armies," sighed the man. He pulled the tapestry toward himself. "I was there the day that the Dwarf-King, mad in his need to reclaim his home and his treasure, dangled Master Baggins from the keep's battlements. Everyone was certain that he would drop the halfling to his death upon the mountain rocks. Terrible business."

"But why would he do that?" demanded Frodo. "Why would he...ever do such a _horrible_ thing?"

"Power and gold and castles and pride can drive a good person to do terrible things, my little friend. Many a good king or queen has been swayed by the promise of power and grandeur and great riches. Surely you have heard the tales and legends of such misguided and foul deeds," said the shopkeeper. "In this case, it was the Arkenstone that was behind the King's wicked fury. The Heart of the Mountain, they called it. Growing up in Esgaroth, I heard many a story about it. A bane upon the dwarves, I'd reckon, but it certainly had its sway over many other people, too."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Aye, I guess children wouldn't be told the darkest parts of that particular story," said the old man. "It's not a pleasant tale, I fear."

The shopkeeper's face appeared more wrinkled for a moment. He looked haunted and disturbed by his own thoughts, which made Frodo's stomach twist into even more painful knots. He was almost scared to hear what the older man had to say. Surely the incident couldn't be any more terrible than the picture already made it appear? How could it possibly be worse?

"My eyes aren't what they used to be, even at the time, but I can still remember the glow of the Arkenstone in King Bard's hands. Apparently, Master Baggins had stolen it in the night, wanting to use the stone as a bargaining chip to prevent a three-way war between the elves, dwarves, and men. Quite brilliant and foolish, if you ask me, but that hobbit's a special one. When the Dwarf-King wouldn't reward Bard for slaying the dragon—which had destroyed Laketown and killed hundreds of innocent people, as I'm sure you already know—the hobbit took it into his own hands to help the homeless denizens of Laketown. So, since the Dwarf-King wouldn't allow him to give his own share of the treasure to King Bard, Master Baggins stole the Arkenstone and used it as leverage to assist the Lakemen and prevent an outbreak of war."

Frodo felt cold as ice and tentatively asked, "The King didn't like that?"

The man's chuckle was sad and bitter. "Not at all, as you can see here. If the wizard hadn't been there to talk the Dwarf-King down, then Master Baggins surely would've been as dead as that accursed dragon. My eyes might be failing, but my mind isn't. I'll never forget that day. Or the ones that followed it."

"Why would Bilbo come back? Or marry him?"

"I've no idea, laddie. The King seems absolutely smitten with him now, but those last days before Master Baggins' departure were tense, if I remember correctly. There were rumors of a reconciliation before the wizard and halfling left for the kindly west, but I rarely ventured into the dwarven encampment. Quite a bit of animosity was floating all around back in those days."

"And the Arkenstone?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," said the old man with a shrug. "It's certainly not sitting above the throne anymore. I'd prefer the accursed thing never return to these parts, but dwarves are a strange lot when it comes to their rocks and stones. At times, they seem to covet them more than life itself. I've a great love for my dyes and fabrics, but I'd never dangle my wife off of Dale's walls if she misplaced them. Or hid them in the pantry. She's done that many a time. Quite devious, that woman. It must be where our daughters get it from, I reckon."

"I don't understand."

The weaver placed a warm hand on Frodo's shoulder. "It's a confusing tale, laddie. I had to confer with our princesses about several parts of it, and I'm still not sure if I was able to capture all of it accurately on here. But I wouldn't worry too much about it. Master Baggins is alive and hale and appears to be doing a fine job as Consort. My wife is especially appreciative of his work with the local farms and eastern merchants. I couldn't tell you about the Dwarf-King, though. He's a strange one, that Thorin Oakenshield. Very stoic and grumpy looking."

"He's not a people person."

"No, no, he's not," agreed the man with a laugh. "But he seems to have improved, at least as a leader. I hope he treats the hobbit well. Banishment, near murder, and awful battles cannot be the easiest actions to move past in a marriage. A story for the ages, I say."

"Maybe..."

"Are you sure you're feeling well, laddie?" The man reached out and felt Frodo's clammy forehead. "Would your mother or father happen to be around? I wouldn't want you to sick up in my dirty ol' store. Not healthy for a fine lad such as yourself."

Frodo shook his head. "I'm here with my friends. And them."

"Ah, the two dwarven ladies who've been eyeing me like a bloodthirsty warg. Quite the protectors you've got there." He reached out and rearranged the tapestry back to its rightful place on the table. "Are you sure you're alright, laddie?"

"Just a queasy stomach," Frodo admitted. "Today's been quite overwhelming."

"Well, you should head home and rest up then. Never good for a young lad to overstress himself. You should leave such things to us grown ups. It's practically our lot in life to be swamped with work. Do you need any help before I return to the desk? Perhaps a friendlier story? Such as the trolls?"

Frodo shook his head again. "No, you've told me more than enough."

"Alright. Rest easy, laddie."

With that, the elderly shopkeeper left Frodo to his thoughts. And what turbulent thoughts they were! For the first time in many years, Frodo felt insecure and sick and more than a little scared about his relationship with the King Under the Mountain. No one had ever told the faunt that part of the story. He felt angry, much angrier than he had in a long, long time. He wondered what else they were hiding from him.

"Frodo?" asked Dwina, her familiar warmth suddenly at his side. "What's wrong? You look sick."

"Did you know that the King nearly killed Uncle Bilbo?" demanded the faunt. His eyes were watery and he could feel his nose starting to dampen, too. "Am I the only person who didn't know this?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That Uncle Bilbo was nearly killed by his own husband over a _stupid_ stone," hissed Frodo. "It's shown right here on this tapestry. See? And the old shopkeeper said so when I asked him about it. He tried to throw him from the walls!"

Dwina pulled the angry faunt into a nearby corner and demanded, " _What_ are you talking about, Frodo Baggins?"

"So you don't know?"

"Would I be asking you if I had any inkling about what you're talking about," snapped Dwina. "No, I wouldn't. Now stop looking at me like that and explain why you're being so nasty. I refuse to put up with it."

And so, Frodo explained everything he'd learned over the past fifteen minutes. Dwina's dark eyes widened throughout the whole thing, her face going just as pale as Frodo's when he'd first seen the tapestry depiction. She looked queasy and upset by the end, small hands holding onto Frodo's elbow as she attempted to absorb the darkest part of their people's greatest tale.

"But Bilbo's so nice," Dwina whispered. "Why would your uncle want to hurt him? Dwarves don't do that to their loved ones."

" _He_ did."

"Are you absolutely certain?"

Frodo huffed in frustration. "Why would the old man lie to me? I don't think he even knew who or what I am. He kept calling me little dwarf and didn't even comment my foot fuzz or leafy ears."

"No one's ever told me that part of the story," said Dwina. "It's like it doesn't exist."

"In the mountain, it doesn't."

Dwina sighed from where she was hugging Frodo and said, "You're not fooling anyone, Donel. Stop hiding around the corner."

The other dwarfling shuffled out from behind the opposite table, freckled face completely unrepentant about the eavesdropping he'd been doing to them. Donel didn't waste a moment in taking Frodo's hand, fingers signing something to the guards in Iglishmêk that would hopefully pacify their concerns for the next couple minutes. The faunt felt hot in the ears, not wanting anyone to see him cry over something as silly as this. Thankfully, their small size allowed them to hide behind the tables without notice, adults going about their business above the children's eye line.

"Maybe it wasn't what it looked like?" hazarded Donel after a tense moment. "Maybe they'd just had a really nasty fight like my amad and adad do sometimes and—"

"Does he dangle your amad from the battlements when she takes his favorite rock?" asked Dwina with an annoyed huff. "Because I know that my uncle doesn't do that to my aunt when she's stolen his last jewel. And she actually did that for food before we came to Erebor, too."

"Well, no..."

"Then don't make assumptions."

The red-haired dwarfling patted Frodo on the shoulder and proceeded to straighten his tunic out, carefully smoothing the edges and making sure that he didn't look like a complete mess. Dwina was just brilliant like that; always thinking ahead and making sure that they didn't land in too much trouble. She was one of the smartest girls Frodo had ever known, making everyone else look like fools when it came to cooking, knife throwing, and arithmetic. Uncle Dori and Master Jarik were already scheming about Dwina being offered an apprenticeship in the Architect's Guild after her fiftieth birthday.

"What're you gonna do?" asked Donel. "We can't just hide out in Dale and avoid your uncle forever."

Dwina sniffed. "We could make a run for the Shire."

"I don't think Gandalf would take us without Uncle Bilbo's permission," said Frodo around a snotty laugh. "And Donel would just get smacked with Petunia Bracegirtle's broom again. She doesn't like people stealing her blueberry pies."

"That pie was worth it."

Frodo snickered with his best friends, politely accepting the handkerchief that Dwina offered for his booger-filled nose. He vaguely heard Donel attempt to whisper something to Dwina, but then there was a loud oomph and Frodo knew that she'd punched him in the gut. Dwina could be downright vicious when she was in the mood for it. Frodo was pretty good at avoiding her wrath, though.

"Did you find something for your amad?"

"Aye, they had some nice woven hairclips and bracelets over at the front counter," said Donel, hands still twitching with the urge to tackle Dwina. "The lady said that they're from the Great Plains in Palisor. Near a giant lake called Daldúnair. I've heard Amad and Bilbo talk about it before. It's apparently a major trading post in the east. What do you think?"

"It's really pretty," Frodo said. "And it looks just fine without any jewels, too."

"Children?" came Aina's voice from around the corner. "It's just past the fifteenth bell. We'd best head back to the mountain now."

With that said, the dwarflings and faunt were corralled toward the counter to make a final purchase of two bracelets and one hairclip for Donel's mother. After that, they were taken out into Dale's busy streets and steered towards the northern gate and the freshly paved road that would lead them back to Erebor. At least three dozen carts had been situated at the gates, filled to the brim with food, fabrics, and lumber supplies. Normally, Frodo would've been curious about what the dwarven merchants had purchased, but for the moment, such thoughts were at the very back of his mind.

"It'll be alright," assured Dwina. "I'm sure it's all just a big misunderstanding."

For the first time in his life, Frodo dreaded returning to the mountain that had become his home. He couldn't reconcile the enraged weaving of Erebor's King and the grumpy uncle who'd loved and cared for him over the past decade. Frodo knew that he needed to uncover the truth behind the matter; it'd haunt him constantly if he didn't. And there was only one place where he could do that...

"We need to find Ori."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short story that I actually wrote about eleven months ago, shortly after I finished _An Unexpected Addition_. However, I didn't want to post it until I'd written a couple of the drabbles, mostly because of the character developments that will be popping up. A lot of readers have messaged me about the distinct lack of Arkenstone and hobbit-banishment in my stories, which I've always planned to address in the future. Hence, this story's creation nearly a whole year ago. I still haven't edited this particular story, so expect updates to be a little slow since I'm going to be very busy over the next few weeks. Now, prepare for some major angst and the past coming back to bite Thorin in his majestic butt.


	2. Chapter II

The Great Library of Erebor was probably one of the least utilized chambers in the entire mountain. Dwarves weren't necessarily stupid or non-academic per se, but they were not naturally inclined towards scholarly occupations, either. There were notable exceptions, of course; such as Balin, Dhola, Ori, Donel's mother, and the twenty-plus dwarves that made up the library's dedicated staff. However, when taking into consideration the great scheme of things, only a handful of Ereborian dwarves were interested in books, scrolls, maps, and fairytales. Blueprints and schematics were a far more common sight in the library than epic poems, medical texts, and classic literature, most of which was sectioned off into various languages. The shelves with Sindarin and Quenya texts were among the dustiest in the whole mountain, something that Erebor's Consort frequently complained about.

"I can't find Ori anywhere."

Frodo sighed in defeat. "I can't, either. He must've left for supper with Clona again."

"We can't really ask anyone else..."

The two friends trudged over to an oaken table and flopped down, Frodo's eyes roaming over the nearby aisles while Donel sifted through a pile of papers that was scattered in front of them. Despite being familiar with the archives, neither of them had paid much attention to the rest of the library, which was usually considered to be Aunt Dhola's and Ori's domain. Like Uncle Bilbo and Glóin, the faunt tended to prefer the older histories of Middle-Earth, most of which were located in the archives and sealed rooms just beneath the library's main floor. And even with the new cataloguing system, finding an exact book or scroll was still very difficult without Ori's assistance, since he seemed to know the entire athenaeum like the back of his wooly hand.

"I finally found it!"

A massive tome was slammed down on the table right in front of their noses, Dwina bustling off for a few moments before returning with four more small books, all of which appeared to be freshly bound and relatively new compared to the rest of the library's usual selection. She positioned them throughout the table and opened each to a bookmarked page, small fingers pointing to the blocky titles at the top of the selected chapters. And in typical Dwina fashion, she crossed her arms and smiled smugly at them.

"They were five aisles down in the recent history section," said the dwarfling. "Honestly, it's not _that_ difficult to decipher Ori's catalogue system. Now, all of these texts give a thorough account of the Quest's last weeks, so we should be able to find something on the incident."

"But this one's written in Sindarin?"

"I know, that's why I selected it." Dwina pushed that small tome towards Frodo and said, "My aunt says that historians and storytellers are biased sometimes, so I thought it'd be best to read several different perspectives. This one's in Khuzdul, these three are in Westron, and that's in Sindarin."

"What about this one?"

"I think that's in Ulgathig, but I've no idea how to read it," she admitted. "A Lotani scholar wrote it while visiting last summer. Almost every other page has a picture on it, so I thought it might be worth a quick lookover."

"You're brilliant, Dwina. I hope you know that."

The young girl preened, her smile even smugger as she started to look through the Khuzdul text and point out any parts that were relevant to their research. It only took five minutes for them to discover that the old weaver hadn't been lying at all. In fact, he'd glossed over several parts and made them seem much more benevolent than they truly were, much to Frodo's horror. The Westron texts and Ulgathig pictures were definitely the most damning, all of them describing and showing his actions and gold madness in all of its cruelty.

"I'm surprised these even made it into the library," said Dwina, her fingers tracing the pictures with a sad reverence. "They make the King look like...well, a treasure hungry dragon. I never knew this had happened."

Donel shushed her and snapped, "You can't say things like that! Someone might hear you."

"Let them. I like Bilbo and what was done to him was deplorable," countered Dwina with that terribly defiant air of hers. If Farina had been with them, Frodo was sure that they would've been scowling and huffing together. "All over a stupid rock. My aunt's always blamed it for bringing Smaug upon us, anyways."

"Umm, Frodo?"

In their bickering, neither of them had noticed their friend's stony silence. Frodo was staring at a picture of Thorin and Bilbo atop the battlements, a small contingency of men and elves standing beneath it. In Bard's hand rested the Arkenstone, the cause of so many problems in Erebor and the Dale Lands. At the bottom of the page was yet another picture, but this one showed Thorin's face twisted into a murderous snarl, his teeth flashing as he shook and dangled Bilbo above the hard rocks beneath Erebor's walls. Both of them cautiously watched Frodo's face, which had remained eerily still for several long moments.

"I don't like that look."

"Frodo?"

"Do something, Dwina!"

"Here, give me the book, Frodo. There's no need for you to—"

A clatter echoed through the cavernous chamber as Frodo shoved out of his chair and took off towards the door, footsteps as silent as his voice as Donel and Dwina tried to keep up with him. The evening librarian called out and asked them what was wrong, but neither dwarfling paid him any mind. Frodo was moving fast and they could barely keep him in their sights as he breezed through the corridors like an angry ghost. Not for the first time, the dwarflings wondered if there was any truth to the tall-tales and rumors that were told in the Dale Lands about halflings and their gift of invisibility.

"Frodo! Stop! You're not thinking straight!"

"Where's he going?" 

"Are you joking?! Where do you think he's going! Hurry up!"

"Seriously?"

"Yes! Now hurry up and grab him!"

"But his uncle's in Open Court right now! He'll kill him if he—"

"Don't say _that_ , you fool!" 

It only took another sharp turn for Donel and Dwina to put the pieces together about where Frodo was going, the faunt's white-knuckled hand clenched onto the small tome that had shifted his entire worldview in less than a minute. It was as if a dense fog of anger had descended upon Frodo's mind, urging him to the face the parent who lied to him. Entire sections of the Quest—vitally important parts pertaining to his uncles!—had been kept from him; purposely omitted so that Frodo wouldn't ask questions that they might not like or want to answer. Well, he wasn't having of that!

"Frodo! For Mahâl's sake, slow down! If you don't, I swear that I'll rip your hair out!"

"Ugh, _why_ is this city so damned big!"

"You're complaining about that _now_?! Worry about your breathing later and run faster, you dolt!"

That horrible, awful, gut-churning picture just kept flashing through Frodo's mind. Until this morning, he wouldn't have been able to fathom Uncle Thorin deliberately hurting his beloved husband in such a terrible way. The Dwarf-King doted upon Bilbo like he was the most precious being in the universe. Frodo had tried to explain away the strange tapestry on their return to Erebor, adamantly telling himself that it was all a big misunderstanding and the storybooks in the library would clear everything up and they could all go back to the way things were yesterday—life was so much simpler when he'd gotten out of bed this morning. And then Frodo had seen the horrific pictures and words of his dwarven uncle trying to murder his hobbit uncle.

"Stop! Frodo Baggins! I order you to stop right this instant!"

And then the faunt was entering the throne room, his feet moving easily along the treacherous walkways that led to the massive stalactite in the center of it. Bilbo hated the cavernous chamber and its complete lack of railings, often telling Thorin that all it would take was a slight tumble of Frodo's growing limbs and they'd lose their nephew to a tomb of rock and stone. It worried the older hobbit to no end, especially since Frodo was entering the major growth spurt years and had already begun to trip over his own feet from time to time. However, Frodo's steps were firm and precise right now; he was here for answers and the faunt wasn't leaving until his uncles told him the truth about what had happened atop the battlements twelve years ago.

"Thorin, I really think we should—oh, Frodo, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

His uncles were both standing before the throne and looking over guild reports, Dwalin and Dori and Glóin bickering in the background about a territory dispute that had recently exploded between the Carpenter and Silversmith Guilds. Apparently, several noses and fingers had been broken and Dori was damned tired of throwing the involved parties through the nearest door or wall. Dís was nowhere to be found, which was quite odd. The chamber was mostly empty at this point—Open Court always ended before supper—only the usual contingency of guards standing near the doors and behind the throne. Because of this, Frodo felt no need to keep his voice down or thoughts to himself.

"You lied to me!"

The King was the first to respond and asked, "What are you talking about, mizimith?"

"Both of you, _all_ of you," hissed Frodo as he threw the book at his uncle, "Lied to me about what happened! You tried to _kill_ Uncle Bilbo!"

If it was possible for a person to pale to the color of white marble, then all of the dwarves in the throne room would've looked like statues after those words came out of the faunt's mouth. Bilbo was the only one who didn't look ashamed or physically ill, and he didn't waste any time in approaching his distressed nephew, hazel eyes wide and dark with concern. But Frodo wasn't having any of it this time. No, he'd had enough of being coddled by the adults in his life.

"Why didn't you tell me?" demanded the faunt. "Did you think I was too stupid to understand?"

"No, Frodo, we never thought that," said Bilbo, hands wringing in the air. "The whole truths behind our journey aren't the epic fairytales that everyone thinks or makes them out to be, my darling. A storyteller's tale isn't the same as the actual event."

"But you're not a storyteller," said Frodo, accusation heavy in his voice. "You're my _uncle_. And you _lied_ to me."

"Don't take that—"

Thorin was promptly silenced with a wave of Bilbo's hand. The very last thing they needed was for Frodo to go any more on the defensive; he was already eyeing Thorin and the other adults with wary glares, something that Bilbo had never wanted to see. It was like Brandy Hall all over again, except Frodo was older and much more articulate now, so sullen silence and frightened hiding was obviously not his first reaction this time around. Bilbo wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. Was it better for Frodo to let it all out or bottle it up like before? He honestly didn't know.

By the Green Lady, Primula would've been so much better at this.

"A lot of very unpleasant things took place during those last days, Frodo," reasoned the older hobbit. "We've already spoken about the treasure and why my share had to go to the men of Dale, correct? Gold can have a strange effect on some people."

"You never told me that Uncle Thorin tried to murder you." Frodo's glare was cold enough to melt glacial ice. "And is that why he won't go into the treasury? Because he might let the gold take over his mind and try to kill you again?"

A deep intake of breath could be heard around the room, Donel and Dwina stepping back to hide behind the throne. They could hear Dori and Glóin wince to their left, eyes fixed on the infuriated faunt. Dwalin didn't seem to know what to do about the situation, fingers twitching in confusion while his face flickered between Frodo and his uncles every few seconds. And for the first time, all three of the children noticed the presence of Lord Dáin and his son, who had both arrived earlier in the week to discuss several military and trade agreements.

"Frodo, I think it'd be best if we discussed this in a more—"

"What? So you can just lie to me again? That's all everyone's been doing around here for years!" Frodo's face was flushed at this point, eyes watery from anger and frustration and a whole collage of unpleasant feelings. "None of them tried to help you! They just stood by and let you be dangled off the battlements like a ragdoll! Why didn't any of you think to tell me that?"

"We wanted to protect you."

"How can you protect me from something that _everybody_ else already knows?" Frodo demanded. "It's in the books, it's on the tapestries, all of the men and women in Dale know about it, too. And apparently so does every dwarf in the mountain except us. Is that why Brunna and her lot think Uncle's going to leave you? Just throw us out onto the desolate dirt and rock when our strangeness wears off?"

Now _that_ stirred up a combustion of shouts and cries from the adults, Dwalin speaking in defense of his cousin while Dáin and Helm appeared to be quite constipated by the whole situation. Bilbo looked genuinely flabbergasted and _very_ upset that their youngest nephew had been harboring such terrible thoughts without any of them knowing; it was exactly what he had been trying to avoid whenever the female dwarf was visiting Erebor's halls. But Frodo had seen all of it: the blatant flirtations, the whispers behind his uncle's back, the ridiculous duel of honor, and the awful truth behind the many snickers and jabs that had been made towards his uncles' marriage. The cruel comments about a stone being worth more than a halfling made a lot more sense now.

"Frodo," said Thorin in a choked voice, "I would never do such a thing to you or—"

"Don't make a promise you can't keep!"

Frodo could feel tears welling in his eyes, but he was too angry to care about them at this point. Everything was so confusing and he couldn't believe that they'd lied to him. Once the novelty wore off, the dwarves would find something better to occupy their time with and then they'd disappear like everybody else, happy to be rid of the pathetic little orphan. Without Uncle Bilbo, he'd be all alone again.

"You're not any better than Mama and Papa! All of you are a bunch of liars! _All_ of you!"

"Frodo, please, you need to calm down and allow your uncle and myself to explain exactly what happened," said Bilbo, gently reaching out to touch Frodo's cheek. "You are right, we shouldn't have kept this from you, but Thorin's actions weren't what you—"

And then Frodo saw it. In the older hobbit's hair were his marriage beads, carefully clipped on the end of Bilbo's short braids and then tucked behind his leaf-like ears, nearly hidden to the untrained or non-dwarven eye. Frodo had always thought them to be beautiful and perfect and a physical expression of the love that existed between his uncles. But now...

"Why are you wearing it?" Frodo demanded. "It glows like the Arkenstone. It _is_ the Arkenstone! Why are you wearing it?!"

The fauntling backed away, barely paying any attention to the nervous breaths that everyone took in around him. He didn't notice how Bilbo and Thorin and the others nearly surged forward, their eyes wide with terror when the faunt's feet came a little too close for comfort to the platform's edge. Even Dwina tried to venture forward—always the most loyal of friends, Dwina was—but her path was blocked by a distraught Bilbo, all semblance of calm gone from the hobbit's face. Everything was spiraling out of control and the adults couldn't figure out how to stop it.

"It was a gift, Frodo. Just as much for marriage as for forgiveness," Bilbo assured, desperately trying to soothe his crying nephew. "What your uncle did was wrong, and he's been repenting for it ever since, but you have to understand that he would never do such—"

"But he already did it! He loved a thrice-damned _rock_ more than you!"

That particular statement seemed to spur Thorin into action, his regal form stepping forward to confront the irrational and upset faunt, who was yet again wandering far too close to the platform's edge. However, the King's sudden movement had the opposite effect and caused Frodo to flinch backwards, his eyes darting between Thorin, the abyss, and the empty slot above Erebor's throne. The significance of those glances was not lost on anyone in the room.

"Please, mizimith," whispered Thorin in the gentlest tone possible, "Please, don't be scared of me. You have nothing to—"

And then a loud clang came from one of the adjoining walkways, nearly a dozen bickering councilmen making their entrance in such a way that it startled Frodo to the point of almost toppling over the gallery's edge. Thorin instantly made a grab for the teetering child, but Frodo somehow managed to regain his balance and move out of the Dwarf-King's path, blue eyes wide with anxiety and fright. Those horrible pictures flashed through Frodo's mind and he felt an awful coldness constrict around his heart. What if his uncle became enraged again? Would he choose to rid himself of an annoying, bratty faunt who wasn't even his own blood-kin? It was just like Brandy Hall all over again and Frodo just couldn't seem to find a parent who'd—

"Frodo!"

Startled like a deer in the lamplight, Frodo bolted away from his uncle's grabby hands and ran for the only walkway that wasn't being blocked by guards, friends, or relatives. He didn't even notice Donel and Dwina running straight after him, their small bodies ducking underneath the guards' hands as well. It only took a few seconds for Dwalin and Thorin to take off in pursuit.

After that, everything was silent for several long moments.

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way," lamented Bilbo. "I should've explained it all to him sooner. With his parents' deaths and everything else, I should've known that he'd react terribly to our omissions and the whole truth."

"Things will be alright, Bilbo," assured Dáin as he handed the hobbit a handkerchief. "Frodo's a bright lad. He's just very confused right now."

Helm walked up and whispered to his father, "I'm going to help them. Are you alright, Bilbo?"

"Aye, I'll be fine. It's Frodo I'm worried about."

None of them noticed the shadowy figure that slinked out from behind a nearby pillar, disappearing into the granite walls like a ghostly specter. The footsteps were silent and precise, aiming for the eastern halls. Everyone else had directly followed the distressed faunt, but this figure knew that a more subtle method needed to be employed as soon as possible.

Damage control seemed to be the order of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing about Frodo's behavior was supposed to be rational, largely due to his age and the circumstances. Just imagine finding out that one of your parents had intentionally tried to murder the other. Not the best thing for a small child to discover on their own, especially at such a sensitive age like Frodo here. From personal experience, things tend to escalate really quick when a young kid finds out that one parent was badly abused by the other. It's never a pleasant thing. Or it wasn't for me or my brothers, at least.
> 
> Also, this _will_ officially be my last story for at least 7 or 8 months, maybe longer depending on my classes and research. Aside from the drabbles, I simply won't have the time to write anything else. A long break's going to be nice, too. I'm a little burned out at this point and my writing really hasn't been up to par over the last couple months.


	3. Chapter III

The Dark Roads of Erebor were a frightful and unpredictable place, most of the paths twisting and turning and stretching for countless miles of complete blackness in all directions around the mighty mountain. Few dwarves dared to venture into such dank and perilous depths, none wishing to fall through hidden segments of bad rock or crash into a rotten plank full of rusty nails. Thankfully, the entrances and exits to the Dark Roads were difficult to locate, especially since the tunnels had fallen into chronic neglect and disrepair during Smaug's occupation of the Lonely Mountain. Only Nori and his minions frequented the dangerous passages now, occasionally escorting miners or masons to mend the most decrepit portions of the tunnels, namely those around the treasury, upper markets, and central city. However, a few of Erebor's smallest inhabitants had become semi-regular patrons of the Dark Roads as well.

"All of them are stupid," Frodo mumbled to himself. "And liars, too. Stupid liars."

The faunt wiped at his snotty nose and itchy eyes for the tenth time in as many minutes, stubbornly refusing to cry or whimper over the volatile confrontation that he'd just had with his uncles in the throne room. Frodo felt emotionally drained and rung out, hands shaking from the anxiety that was still thrumming through his exhausted body. It was rare for the faunt to fight with his guardians and Frodo could count on one hand the number of times he'd ever raised his voice to them. Hobbits weren't an antagonistic race; shouting and arguing and upheaval tended to take a lot out of them and Frodo was not an exception to this rule.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Frodo didn't bother to move, small form huddled into a nigh-invisible opening along the low-hanging wall. Various blankets and boxes and mining tools were scattered around the circular charter shaft that Nori himself had installed four years ago, its location offering a convenient rest point for the spymaster and his industrious minions. Packages of watered down ale and rations were hidden along the upper walls, gifts of necessity that Nori personally restocked every two weeks for his minions and any miners that might be wandering through the tunnels. And from the loud sound of crunching near his feet, Nori figured that Frodo must have found them and decided to have a midnight snack.

This was a very good thing, of course. Hungry hobbits were terrible business. And despite Dwalin's opinion on his masochistic tendencies, Nori didn't particularly enjoy being bit or gnawed on by a pint-sized butterball if he could avoid it.

"Did my uncles send you?"

"I had hoped that you'd know me better than that, mim kalilâl," lamented Nori with a dramatic pout. "Since when have I ever listened to Thorin on matters such as this? I'm wholly loyal to His Royal Gruffness, but you've gotta admit that your uncle's a lil' thick in the head at times."

"And Uncle Bilbo?"

"For you, my dearest Frodo, I can live without raspberry sticky buns," sighed the dwarf, his movements hard to track in the dark. "For a few weeks. If it's any longer, then I'll have to exact revenge upon your person. I've killed for those delicious buns before, I'll have you know."

"I don't wanna talk right now."

"Aye, your little friends down the tunnel told me as much. Quite fierce, those two are."

Frodo didn't even bother to respond after that, stubbornly lying on the hard floor while also keeping his face hidden in the middle of his crossed arms. A few blankets could be seen in the darkness, positioned beneath Frodo's chest, stomach, and legs to hold off some of the damp chill that haunted every part of the mountain. The fauntling obviously knew where Nori stashed all of his goodies, although the thief didn't really mind this development, either. Taking in traumatized and delinquent strays had become one of his more commendable habits in recent years.

"Master Nori?"

Ah, and there was one of them now.

"You can inform our King and Consort that their sproutling is safe and sound and in the company of a trusted adult," Nori instructed. "Well, mostly trusted, at least. I assume that they're throwing quite the fit at this point."

Fróya nodded. "According to Jóya, there was much cup throwing and chair smashing. He hid behind the purple tapestry, I think."

"Clever boy."

"Should I inform Master Dwalin as well?"

The faunt watched in the very dim light as Nori pressed a small...something into Fróya's hand, instructing her to give it to Dwalin after she returned home for the night. Frodo knew that the captain and spymaster had been caring for several of Nori's youngest minions, most of whom were orphans or down-on-their-luck tweens. His uncle frequently baked cupcakes and pies and casseroles for the pick-pocketing brood, a whole plethora of snacks and finger-bites conveniently laying around the royal apartments and offices whenever no one was there. Bilbo always smiled when the tiny gifts disappeared during an absence, happily puttering around and interrogating Dwalin about which child liked what food, drink, candy, whatever the least or the most.

"And tell your brother to leave my knives alone," warned Nori. "Evil lil' rascal's been snatching 'em for weeks now."

"I can't promise anything."

With that, Fróya disappeared into the black, her footsteps as silent as the ghosts and specters that Bofur loved to tell stories about. Frodo didn't know much about Fróya and Jóya, but they seemed nice enough and he'd caught Nori and Dwalin smiling a lot more often since their arrival seventeen months ago. And considering Dwalin's tendency to frown and scowl at anything and everything, that was a very, very good sign.

Or maybe the _wrestling_ was a major influence, too. Adults were strange about things like that, Frodo had learned.

"I swear, I have to do everything around this city," Nori mumbled. He flicked at a small, concealed torch that was hidden in the ceiling. "Honestly, the whole lot of them would be dead a hundred times over if I wasn't around to save their self-righteous asses. Shameful..."

Frodo just laid there and listened to the spymaster gripe and groan to himself. It took his mind off of less...pleasant things in his life.

"Okay, now listen and listen well, beansprout. I've got a story for you," said Nori as he flopped down beside Frodo on the ground. "Even by dwarven standards, your uncle's a bit of a judgmental prick, and I'm saying that in the nicest way possible. There's a reason why I held more respect for your aunt in Ered Luin. So, it's not surprising that dear, cranky Thorin acted like a hobbit-hating dope for the first half of the quest. I've never been much for authority or dwarven superiority, as you well know, and I've ran into an interesting array of shirelings throughout my travels. Best food in the west, hands down, no competition."

Nori paused for a moment, eyes drifting off into fond memories. Frodo wondered if he'd ever been smacked with a broom. That dwarf had a bad case of sticky fingers and lady hobbits were viciously protective of their pies.

"But I digress...now, it took a long while for Thorin to warm up to our devious butterball of a burglar, but he was quite taken by Bilbo's fierce genius and invisible powers by the time we reached Laketown. Or maybe it was just how cleverly Bilbo was able to outsmart the elves in their own home. That's a _very_ attractive trait. I think Thorin was all but salivating and swooning when Bilbo busted us out of there."

"I already know all of this, Uncle Nori."

"None of that sass, beansprout, I'm just giving some backstory for effect. Bofur's not the only one who can tell a good tale around here," sniffed the thief. "So, we've already established that your hairier uncle's a stubborn galoot, which resulted in him suffering from a wee case of gold sickness. I'm assuming that no one has properly informed you of the side-effects that come with such an unfortunate illness, have they?"

Frodo shook his head, face still buried in his arms. Maybe if he didn't look up, Nori would go away.

"And that's where everything went wrong," Nori mumbled to himself. The spymaster scooted over and wrapped an arm around Frodo's shoulders. "Okay, I'm gonna give you the bluntest, most straightforward explanation I can, mizimith. And it's not going to be pleasant, but I want you to listen and not jump to conclusions until I'm done, alright?"

The faunt nodded again.

"You know the rest of the story, so I'm just going to fill in the gaps," Nori said. "And that starts about two minutes after Smaug barreled out of Erebor and proceeded to burn Laketown to the ground. Or the lake. Whichever one works, take your pick. We dwarves have a wee bit of an issue with gold and gemstones and other shiny things, as you've probably seen with your Uncle Glóin and the other bankers. Most of the time, we can control ourselves by pushing the thoughts to the back of our minds. I might pick my fair share of pockets, but only as much as I need to survive and support my family. Although I will admit that your aunt's jewelry box was quite tempting..."

Frodo glared at him.

"Now, now, there's no need for that. And as I said, most of the time, pushing away the pull isn't a big problem." Nori's face darkened after that, his hold on Frodo tightening as he approached the grimmer parts of the story. "But with a treasury like Erebor's at our feet? Well, it _changed_ things."

The dwarf took a deep breath and closed his eyes, fingers tightening around Frodo's shoulders. If something conjured up that kind of expression on the spymaster's face, then Frodo knew it was a very unpleasant subject. Or a nightmare...

"Gold sickness creeps up on you like a phantom, or a small voice slowly becoming louder and louder in your ears. It pulls you toward the gold like a magnet and everything else seems not to matter; even eating and drinking and sleeping becomes a chore when there's so much gold and jewels to count and catalogue. I knew what would happen to my fingers if I tried to take anything, so I stuck to the outer halls during most of the frenzy, but it was always there, right on the edges of my mind. Whispering to me, calling to me."

"Why didn't you just leave?" Frodo asked. "Wouldn't leaving the mountain cure it?"

"Maybe, maybe not, all dwarves react differently to it. Fíli and Kíli were naturally more resistant to the pull, but I think that was due to their young ages and what they'd just witnessed in Laketown. I had to make a conscious effort to resist it. The craving was _always_ there. And as you know, your uncle's grandfather had suffered from the madness more than any other dwarf in recent times and—"

"Except for Uncle Thorin."

Nori paused at that and eventually said, "Aye, except for your uncle. I suspect that the gold sickness had already started taking root as soon as he saw the mountain for the first time. His eyes were different after that. His behavior, too. The madness often makes a dwarf cold and callous; all they wish to do is find their gold and count it until the end of time. No pile is ever large enough; no jewel is ever grand enough. It's a vicious cycle and the line of Durin has been stuck in it for many centuries. Your uncle was just the latest casualty. Not that that excuses _any_ of his actions, either."

"Uncle Bilbo seems to think so," grunted the faunt. "He _married_ the dwarf who tried to kill him."

"I'll admit, I was shocked that your uncle forgave Thorin after what he'd done," admitted Nori with a sigh. "In the eyes of Thorin and the madness, stealing the Arkenstone was an act of high treason, and in dwarven society, that means death."

"You don't _kill_ the people you love over a stupid _rock_."

"Aye, you're right, beansprout. Not that either of them were willing to admit or act on their feelings at the time, but killing your companion over a shiny rock isn't something that most dwarven mothers would be proud of. And Bilbo was the only one of us with a lick of sense at the time, so he made the best decision he could with limited time and four armies knocking at our gates. Erebor would've been lost if your uncle hadn't taken such a dangerous risk. I think Thorin realized this, but the madness and pull towards Erebor's birthright overrode everything else in his mind."

"Why didn't you stop him?" Frodo demanded. "You said that you and Fíli and Kíli weren't completely bonkers with the madness, so why didn't _any_ of you even attempt to stop Uncle Thorin from killing your burglar?"

Nori sighed and scrubbed at his face with a filthy hand. "I can't speak for your cousins, but I was a coward, plain and simple. The only reason I'm not rotting in a prison cell is because of Ori volunteering me to the quest itself. It was your aunt who convinced Thorin to let me accompany them, and that was only because of my...unique abilities. Not exactly the best way to gain someone's trust, eh? Anytime something went missing in the camp or on ponyback, I was blamed for it. At least until they found whatever it was they'd lost. And if they didn't manage to find it, then, well, I was still blamed for it."

"Did they think you took the Arkenstone? When they couldn't find it?"

"Aye, they did, and it wasn't a friendly encounter." Nori took the faunt's hand and ran it over a long, jagged scar on his right forearm. "Our burglar wasn't even a suspect at that time, which is something that I'll never regret. Your uncle may be tough and fierce for a hobbit, but he's still much smaller and delicate compared to us dwarves. Thorin would not have been so kind without Gandalf there to stop him. I'm glad it was me who he targeted inside the mountain and not our Bilbo. I can take punches and kicks and knife fights with the best of them, but a malnourished hobbit?"

The thief reached over and grabbed an oatmeal bar from Frodo, stuffing over half of the sweet treat into his mouth. Just like everything else that the Company and their family and friends ate, this snack had been made by Bilbo, specially designed with herbal preservatives to remain edible for several weeks before staling in the tunnels or while out on patrol. Yet another thing that the Company's burglar had done to make their lives easier.

"No, it's good that it was me who took the initial blame. And the scar's not too bad, either. Very dastardly."

Despite his anger and continued resentment towards the Company for their actions—or complete lack thereof—Frodo found himself cuddling closer to Nori. The faunt tried to wave it away as basic instinct to avoid the tunnel's damp chill, but Frodo also knew that he was desperately craving physical and emotional contact with an adult who hadn't wronged Bilbo or himself.

"Uncle Dwalin should've protected you. Or punched Uncle Thorin in the head for being an asshole."

"No foul language, beansprout. I'll not have Bilbo boxing me in the ears again." Nori didn't hesitate to cuddle the faunt. "And Dwalin wasn't exactly my biggest patron back then. Actually, if he could've thrown me off the battlements, he probably would've without a second thought. It's taken _decades_ for us to even hold a civil conversation. Or to get past all those times I broke out of his supposedly impenetrable jail cells. He did confront Thorin though, when Dáin and his men were stuck fighting our battles for us. And like your cousins, Dwalin didn't hesitate to put himself between Thorin and Bilbo when our King went truly barmy on the battlements."

"I still don't understand why he did what he did," Frodo murmured. "Or why Uncle Bilbo would take him back, either."

"That's something that you'll have to ask your uncles," was Nori's reply. "However, I can assure you that it was a long, unpleasant process. Bilbo may have forgiven Thorin on his supposed deathbed, but our burglar was still quite leery of him before leaving for the Shire. That's the reason why everyone was surprised to see Bilbo return. And with you in tow!"

"But that still doesn't—"

"And I can't answer that for you," said Nori as he took another bite of the oatmeal bar. "I have little memory of the days immediately after the battle, and no one but Bilbo or Thorin knows what was said in that tent. I do know that Dwalin apologized after my concussion finally started to recede and it didn't feel like two dozen miners were throwing a party inside my head. Oddest day of my life."

Frodo giggled at this. "Did he look constipated when he did it?"

"Oh, it was the most painfully and gassily constipated expression I'd ever seen." Nori laughed and tried to wipe away the snot from Frodo's nose with a handkerchief. It had Bilbo's initials on it. "Pulling teeth would've been less painful for him."

It was quiet for a few moments before Frodo asked, "I don't understand how he could love gold and jewels more than Uncle Bilbo. Or Fíli and Kíli..."

"Look at me. I said look at me, Frodo Baggins."

When the faunt didn't turn, Nori grabbed his chin and made Frodo face him. They were having this conversation whether the faunt liked it or not; and rest assured, Frodo really didn't like it.

"Your uncle has made a lot of very stupid decisions in his life and I've seen many of them in Ered Luin and in Erebor. We won't even cover some of his poorer decisions on the quest itself. He's one of the most emotionally constipated dwarves I've ever met in my life, and this is coming from _me_ of all people. However, if there's one good thing I can say about Thorin Oakenshield, it's that he loves his boys. All _three_ of them."

Frodo sniffled and tried to turn away.

"Did you hear me? Thorin loves you. And Bilbo. And Fíli and Kíli. Although I'm certain that he sometimes wishes he could kill them."

Another round of sniffles were stubbornly held in.

"Your uncle doesn't enter the treasury because he loves all of you too much. He's scared of the gold sickness. Terrified of it. Because Thorin knows—and I was eavesdropping, so I know this for a fact—that if he succumbs to the madness again, Bilbo _will_ pack up and return to the Shire. And he'd take _you_ with him." Nori forced Frodo to look him in the eyes. "Your uncle loves you too much to risk that. And if you think any differently, then you're not the clever boy I know you are, fuzzfoot."

Frodo tried to shove him away, but Nori wouldn't allow it.

"A hobbit sits upon the throne of Erebor instead of the Arkenstone. Here, in the Lonely Mountain, home of Durin's Folk. If that doesn't scream devoted and everlasting love, then our King Under the Mountain's not a true dwarf."

Two fingers suddenly pulled at the pointed tips of Frodo's ears.

"He'd be an _elf_."

Those words were enough to unleash another round of tears, but this time, Frodo didn't even attempt to struggle against Nori's arms or the prickly beard against his cheeks. He let the spymaster hold him, reveling in Nori's assurances that Thorin would still love him. That Erebor's gold and jewels weren't more important than the faunt that he'd adopted and raised as his own nephew and child. Nothing scared Frodo more than losing another parent, and Nori seemed to know this.

"I'm not sure of a lot of things in this world, beansprout, but your uncle's love for you? That's nonnegotiable."

"But what if it's not enough?"

"Then Bilbo will bash him over the head until his marbles line up." Nori pulled out another handkerchief. "Here, blow..."

Frodo did as he was told and thoroughly ruined yet another handkerchief. Not that that would be considered a tragedy to any dwarf worth his salt in hairiness. Destroying Bilbo's handkerchiefs was a favorite pastime of the Company, namely Bofur and the princes. Gimli was a common culprit as well.

After ten or more minutes of crying and muttering, Nori finally asked, "You ready to talk to them yet?"

The dwarf didn't pressure Frodo into an immediate answer, which the faunt was very grateful for and he returned the favor by giving Nori an even tighter hug. He just stared into the darkness for a little while, nose sniffling and eyes sticking as the tears slowly dried up and Frodo's thoughts cleared for the first time in hours. Frodo remembered the terrible pictures and words in the books, the horrified faces of his uncles, and the awful tapestry that had triggered everything. With a shiver that was half from the cold and half from the overall situation, Frodo snuggled under the spymaster's beard and decided to make himself at home for now.

"Can we just lay here for a little while?"

Nori reached down and carded his fingers through Frodo's curls before slowly rolling onto his back. In this position, Frodo was safely situated atop the dwarf's stomach and well away from the tunnel floor. The last thing any of them needed was for Frodo to catch a cold. They'd already filled up their yearly quota on that particular illness, thank you very much.

"Aye, we can do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've started my research at this point, so updates will be very slow in coming for the drabbles and this story will hopefully be finished by the end of the month. For those of you who guessed Nori, congratulations! I've got a serious soft spot for that dwarf, so he tends to pop up where I'm least expecting him sometimes. And he seems like the kinda guy who'd be giving everyone nicknames, too. Or maybe codenames. He is a spy, after all. Mim kalilâl = little trickster.


	4. Chapter IV

The royal apartments were quiet when Frodo finally returned a half-hour after midnight. None of the guards so much as blinked as Nori guided the faunt through the ornate halls; they were well aware of Nori's fondness for the child and probably knew that Erebor's spymaster had gone looking for him. Frodo took a deep breath and tried to will away the knots that had formed in his stomach. For the first time in his life, Frodo was genuinely scared of facing his uncles, most especially Thorin and the violent reaction that he may have to the faunt's earlier behavior. Despite Nori's many reassurances, he still couldn't shake the images of an enraged Thorin dangling the Company's burglar over the battlements.

Frodo couldn't help but wonder if his uncle was pushed far enough, would Thorin do the same to him? It was a frightening thought.

"Here we are, beansprout."

"Are you sure you can't come in with me?" Frodo asked. "Maybe they'll be more—"

"Your uncles aren't going to do anything to shame or hurt you," said Nori for the sixth time. "Honestly, I'll be surprised if either of them manage to speak straight or look you in the eyes. To say that this subject's rather...touchy would the understatement of the century. Yeah, that's a pretty good description, I think. Now, enough stalling, it'll be a lot easier to just get this over with. Toodles..."

"Traitor."

Releasing a huff of annoyance, Frodo pushed at the heavy door and silently tip-toed into the receiving room of the King and Consort. The torches were lit around the room, a soft glow passing over the oaken tables, plush chairs, and wooly carpets that Frodo and his friends often played upon with their toys or wooden swords. Four inky figures sat in front of the roaring fireplace, their heads and forearms alerting Frodo to who he'd be facing once his presence was known to them. He almost missed the sight of Bombur, whose eyes widened with a loud cough.

Spiced beef cubes were a terrible thing to choke on.

"Bombur? What's the..."

The faunt was standing in the middle of the room when Bilbo spotted him. It only took a moment for everyone else to respond, Fíli and Dís shooting up in their chairs before they could catch themselves. Kíli was probably nearby as well. And Frodo could hear the loud boom of Dáin and Helm through the adjoining door, their conversations just as boisterous as ever. He wondered if living in the Iron Hills was an option? Lady Gella always talked about stealing Frodo for herself.

Dís was the first to react and said, "Come, Fíli. It sounds like Dáin's broken the stove again."

When the prince didn't respond, Dís simply grabbed Fíli by the collar and dragged him out of the room, a still hacking Bombur scurrying along behind them. Everything went silent after that, Frodo just standing there and shuffling his feet, waiting for his uncles to say something, anything. He couldn't muster up the nerve to look them in the eyes, but maybe they'd decide—

And then Frodo was being pulled into a tight hug, Bilbo's familiar scent wafting into the child's nose. Itchy eyes watering for the umpteenth time that night, Frodo didn't even hesitate to return the older hobbit's embrace, instinctively huddling into Bilbo's warm neck and shoulder. They stayed like that for a few moments, the older hobbit muttering assurances into Frodo's curls and clutching the little boy like he'd disappear if Bilbo didn't hold him close or tight enough. It eventually got to the point where Frodo had some difficulty breathing, but he didn't complain about his smaller uncle's emotional outburst. Bilbo was infamous for being the more expressive of Erebor's royal couple, which was something that their nephews and subjects—quite a few dwarves were terrified of Thorin's temper and wrath—had grown accustomed to over the past decade.

"You had us terribly worried, darling."

"I needed some time to think," said Frodo, voice quiet and reserved. "And be alone by myself."

"We understand. And you're not in trouble, either."

The faunt slowly shuffled away from his uncle and pulled himself up onto a nearby chair, stubbornly refusing any assistance that Bilbo tried to offer him. Being as independent as his larger dwarven friends had been a goal of Frodo's in recent months and even if the oak chair was dauntingly tall, Frodo wasn't about to give that freedom up due to the current situation. And so, with quite a bit of irritated grunts and pinwheeling legs, the fauntling pulled himself onto the plush cushion and then sat back with his arms crossed, blue eyes expectant and trained on his anxious-looking uncles.

If they'd been flashed one too many times by Frodo's wriggling bum, then, well, they'd just have to live with it.

A tense silence hung over the room. It took a few moments, but Bilbo eventually sat down across from Frodo and glanced towards the fireplace and the two chairs that rested in front of it. Frodo knew that his other uncle was sitting there. The bejeweled fingers and heavily coated forearm was a dead giveaway. However, Thorin had barely twitched since his youngest nephew's arrival, although Frodo knew better than to fall into such a likely trap. When the King Under the Mountain was nervous, he tended to hide behind a mask of indifference or hostility. Sometimes disgust and revulsion, too.

Or that's what Uncle Bilbo said, at least.

"I suppose you deserve some answers, don't you?" said Bilbo after another minute of uneasy silence. "I hope you'll forgive us and understand why we kept certain things from you."

"You could've told me," Frodo snapped. "I would've understood. You didn't have to lie about it."

"It's a difficult story, sweetheart."

Frodo glared at them and said, "I'm used to terrible stories. I heard them all the time back in the Shire."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard all of those stories about Mama and Papa and how they drowned in the river." Frodo glowered at a moldy spot on the wall. "Everyone thought I couldn't hear them or that I was too stupid to understand, but I heard all of the whisperings just fine and I know Papa didn't push Mama into the river. He'd never hurt her. I may have been young and little, but I know that Papa would _never_ do that to her."

Bilbo was horrified. "Who on Arda told you that?"

"A lot of people, mostly in Hobbiton and near the Bywater. All they ever did was wag their tongues about Mama and Papa being unnatural for boating and pushing each other into the river," snarled the little hobbit. His face was red with frustration, something that Bilbo rarely saw in him. "I could hear their whispering when they visited Brandy Hall. They're a bunch of stupid liars."

"You never told us about that."

"Why should I have told you? It didn't matter. I don't live in the Shire anymore."

"But it must have bothered—"

"It didn't bother me until I found out that the King tried to kill you." Frodo didn't notice his dwarven uncle's flinch at the impersonal use of his title; the faunt had exclusively called him Uncle Thorin for well over a decade. "Do they whisper about it here, too?"

Bilbo rubbed at his eyes and conceded, "Sometimes..."

"I think I've heard them before," said Frodo. He was fiddling with his sleeves now, a bad habit that he often fell into when anxious or upset. "Talking about you like you're not the Consort. Or like you don't deserve to be here. I never understood it."

"What do they say?"

The sound of Thorin's voice startled the hobbits, both of whom had forgotten about his presence in the room. It was the first time that Thorin had spoken since Frodo's arrival about ten minutes prior, the Dwarf-King's form covered in shadow and eerily still in the waning firelight. Frodo sunk deeper into the chair, nervously watching the broody bulk that was his uncle. Thorin had a nasty temper at the best of times. And a terrible habit of flying off the handle, as Balin liked to put it.

Frodo bit his lip and said, "That you should've married a lady dwarf. Or that Uncle Bilbo's just a bedwarmer. And some other...mean things..."

"Be more specific."

"Stop it, Thorin," hissed the older hobbit. "You're not helping matters at all."

Neither of them moved when Thorin suddenly stood up and started to pace in front of the fireplace. The Dwarf-King's fingers flexed with every step, his broad shoulders stiff with tension as he attempted to rein in his temper and the rage that boiled just below the surface. Frodo instinctively reached out for Bilbo, blue eyes tracing his uncle's path of seething anger. It made the knots in Frodo's stomach tighten even further, if that was possible.

"I refuse to have rumors being spread about you again," Thorin snarled. "Not again. I'll have their tongues for it."

"You're scaring him, Thorin."

The King finally turned around and allowed Frodo to see his face, firelight shifting along the long nose and hard cheekbones that the faunt knew so well. He had woken up to that face for over a decade, always delighted in the crow's feet that signaled his uncle's subtle bouts of laughter and amusement. But tonight, Thorin's face resembled a slab of craggy slate, worn down and broken from fatigue. It was a shocking sight. The King's usually sharp blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as if he'd been crying or rubbing at them too much. Frodo knew that was impossible, though.

His uncle _never_ cried.

Thorin's shoulders slumped and he said, "I apologize, mizimith. My thoughts have been dark and scattered this night."

"I think we all need to calm down and have a rational conversation," said Bilbo. He stood and gently led Thorin to the chair beside his own, holding the King's hand the entire time. "And I'm certain you have quite a few questions, don't you, Frodo? Best to focus on that, I think."

"Where's the Arkenstone?"

"It's gone," was Thorin's immediate response. "Balin kept it carefully hidden until earlier this year when Gandalf returned. He promised to release it into the Belegaer Ocean upon his next visit to the Blue Mountains. No one will ever be burdened by it again."

"And what about those?"

Bilbo fingered his marriage beads and said, "Your uncle gifted them to me after our wedding ceremony. And yes, these are fragments of the Arkenstone."

"Did you know that? When he gave them to you?"

"It's a rather distinctive stone," said Bilbo as he removed the bead behind his left ear. Touching another dwarf's—or in this particular case, hobbit's—beads was a massive taboo in dwarven culture, and only close family and friends were permitted such a privilege. "I'll admit, I was quite reluctant to wear them at first, along with my courting beads before those, but your uncle's proposal was very persuasive. Here, look closer, sweetheart."

Frodo looked at the dragon-like engravings and then asked, "Is that why you carved them like this?"

"That's correct," admitted Thorin with a loud sigh. "In a way, at least. My treatment of your uncle was reprehensible and absolutely unforgivable and no, Bilbo, don't attempt to argue with me on this. Our courting and marriage beads were a plea for redemption, I suppose. Not that I deserved it for my actions, but I'm a selfish dwarf and giving up your uncle without a fight just..."

"Didn't seem right?"

Thorin nodded, lips curling into a tired laugh. "Aye, that's one way of putting it. I'd never been so scared in my life. Probably would've kept those beads in my pocket forever if your cousin hadn't gotten himself stabbed in the thigh. Wouldn't put it past Fíli to have planned it, too."

"Grown-ups aren't supposed to be afraid."

"I'm afraid all the time," said the King. "About my kingdom, about my people, about my friends, about my family. And about my children. I allowed the madness to take over my mind once before, and it nearly cost me the most important things in my life. It infested my mind, twisting and churning until nothing but the gold and the gems and the Arkenstone were all that mattered. Anything flesh and blood was meaningless, useless to me during those days and nights. I can't even look at the treasury without feeling sick to my stomach, but it's still there. Pushing and clawing at my mind. It's _always_ there."

Frodo shivered and said, "Can you feel it right now?"

"At the moment? No, I can't," Thorin assured. His posture was hunched and defeated. "But it will return. And I'll have to push the greedy fog away again. So long as I avoid the treasury and other temptations, my will shall remain my own. I've made sure of it."

"What if you...turn on us again?"

The King hesitated before saying, "There have been provisions put in place if such a situation ever occurs again. It applies not only to myself, but the rest of Erebor as well. Gold sickness has been a plague upon our people for far too long and I won't have it running rampant in my kingdom. I'm not my grandfather."

"But none of that will be necessary," said Bilbo with a firm nod. "We've made certain of that, I can assure you."

"Is that why you returned?"

Bilbo blew out a sigh and said, "I thought long and hard before deciding to return to the mountain. As you may remember, Thorin and I were little more than friends upon my arrival with you, and even that was tenuous until he proved himself. Protecting and providing you with a stable home was the main reason why I shared monthly letters with the boys and Balin during my return journey to and from the Shire."

"You did?"

"Of course, what would you expect? I needed to guarantee that you wouldn't relapse before my arrival with Frodo," reasoned the older hobbit. "The ravens were more than willing to offer their assistance, so I partook of it. And I needed to know that the gold sickness wouldn't return, which meant that only the bluntest of the Company could be trusted. The risk was too great."

"If it did happen, would we leave?"

"Aye, that was a part of our marriage contract," Thorin said. "I'll not have you or Bilbo chained to a gold-mad dwarf. As you've already learned from the books, children are often the first to suffer in the face of madness." He fiddled with and stared at the bejeweled rings upon his fingers. "Fíli and Kíli were my first victims, along with your uncle. I'll not have the same happen to you."

"Does it scare you?"

"Every minute of every day," the King confessed. "Fíli and Kíli are littered with the scars of my insanity. Bilbo's life was nearly snuffed out by my own hands. And your aunt almost lost her entire family in one fell swoop. You're the only who hasn't..."

Bilbo reached out and took his husband's hand. It did little to calm the King's disposition.

"The Council wasn't pleased when I refused to adorn my crown with shards of the Arkenstone," he growled. "But they have no comprehension of what the madness can do to a person, or how quickly it can ensnare the mind. The battlements and treasury still haunt my worst nightmares. If I have to sacrifice a few gems and trinkets to protect my family, then so be it."

"Is that why you don't wear as many jewels as everyone else?"

He nodded and said, "I don't have the right anymore. I lost it the moment I placed my hands upon your uncle in anger. The Company understands and after Smaug, I don't think any of our people would object to a less decadent King upon the throne."

"You still should've told me," said Frodo. "I can't say that I wouldn't have reacted badly, but it would've been better, I think."

"It was a mistake on our part."

For the first time since Frodo's explosive outburst, Thorin reached out and took the faunt's hand, fingers twitching as if afraid of rejection. Despite still feeling resentful of all of the omissions and lies, Frodo allowed the King to pull him across the floor and into his lap, strong arms surrounding Frodo in a familiar warmth. Thorin was often the first person who Frodo ran to when he was frightened or disoriented, so being denied that simple and natural comfort had shook up the boy's emotional state even more than usual. He'd felt so alone and confused this afternoon, everything seeming to fall down around him. It had been terrifying.

"I could _never_ love the Arkenstone more than you."

The faunt nearly laughed at the situation. Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, and perhaps the most emotionally constipated dwarf to ever walk the halls of Erebor or the twisting roads of the Shire, was openly speaking about his feelings. Yes, he had always been very affectionate with Frodo, perhaps a little too much at times since the faunt was often allowed to get away with everything except murder and blatant vandalism, but talking about mushy feelings?

Maybe he'd been abducted or something. It was plausible.

"By the hammers of Mahâl and the grace of his Green Lady, I was somehow gifted with your uncle's forgiveness," said Thorin, large hands cupping the back of Frodo's head and lower back. "Why he forgave me for such heinous transgressions remains beyond my limited knowledge, but I've never been more thankful for anything in my life. If I could travel back in time and punch my younger and much stupider self in the head, I would without a second thought. And then I'd throw several boatloads of gold at Bard and his people and run off with Bilbo for some proper schmoozing."

"For Yavanna's sake..."

"What can I say? You hobbits are terribly soft and plump," Thorin gave Frodo an extra-tight squeeze, "And much better to cuddle with than a bagful of gold. My blindness was absolutely atrocious back then."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

Frodo giggled at his uncles' banter and then asked, "None for Thranduil and the elves?"

"How dare you even suggest such a thing, mizimith," said the King with an offended snort. "I'd sooner chop my braids off than give that flamboyant tree-shagger what his rotten heart desires. Preposterous idea."

"Just in case you've forgotten," sighed Bilbo, "He _did_ save your life."

"Semantics."

"It took over a half-hour of begging and bargaining to convince him to revive your slashed up carcass," said the older hobbit. "And then I had to deal with his insufferable glares and snooty flouncing for weeks. You have no idea the suffering I went through for you."

"Then you should've shot him in the ass," Thorin argued. "Or given him some of Óin's laxatives. Would've worked like a Lotani charm."

"At least Fíli and Kíli had the decency to say thank you."

The faunt laid against Thorin's chest while he lovingly retied Bilbo's marriage braids. Frodo still had a lot of questions about the Arkenstone incident and everything else that came both before and after it. He still felt some resentment about the whole situation, but today had been terribly long and emotional and Frodo could already feel his eyes drooping as his uncles' voices dropped down to shushed whispers. It was soothing to Frodo's ears and for a few moments, he forgot about the events of that day and simply reveled in the King's furnace-like warmth.

"It's alright to sleep, darling. We'll speak more in the morning."

Frodo didn't move as his uncle stood up and moved around the room, the faunt nestled against Thorin's broad chest. He could hear the creak of a nearby door and didn't put up any fuss when Bilbo's fingers attempted to wrangle him out of his dirty clothes. Frodo shivered and grumbled while he was maneuvered into his sleep pants and shirt, purposely bonking Thorin in the nose on two occasions. After that, he was placed on an even softer surface and didn't hesitate to snuggle down into the wonderful sheets and pillows of his uncles' monstrous bed.

"Did you wash over his feet and hands?"

"Aye, and his face. I'm capable of the basics, I'll have you know."

"Never can be too careful."

The bed dipped a few minutes later, two forms lying down on either side of the faunt. Half asleep and exhausted on every level, Frodo just rolled over and buried himself into the nearest lump of warmth. From the springy hair that tickled his nose, Frodo decided that the King would make a lovely cuddle-pillow tonight. After everything he'd been through today, it was only fair. He didn't even protest the extra-long kisses atop his head and defenseless cheeks. There would be plenty of time for interrogations and noisy complaints in the morning.

Preferably after first and second breakfast. Frodo had had enough excitement and food deprivation for one week, thank you very much.

"Sleep, mizimith."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're all done here. My hiatus from anything but drabbles and one-shots is now official. My plotty storytelling just isn't what it used to be due to my hectic schedule and trolling issues in recent months, so I'm actually relieved to be done for a long while. I think my flair's kinda faded at this point. But I hope my depiction of Frodo's reaction to the Arkenstone incident and Thorin's continuing battle with gold sickness was interesting for everyone. Thanks for reading!


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